The Easiest to Heal
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: "Thought you would especially appreciate the setting, Sherlock, because this is where your Johnny offered to sacrifice himself for you. Told you to run, save yourself. And you didn't! How sweet. IRomantic/I, even. So, I'm going to help you two to take it to the next level." Alternative version of FOD from BBCkinkmeme where Sherlock chooses Moriarty to spare John the guilt. Non-con.
1. Altruism

"Good morning, Doctor Watson. Or is it evening? I thought the familiar setting might be comforting. Drink it in with your senses: the chlorine, the humidity. Some imagery, to help you remember this moment."

Even through his haze of slowly emerging consciousness, the lilt of the voice was unmistakable. A blurry figure kneeled down next to John as he winced at the glaring lights overhead.

"Oh, do you have a headache? That might prove to be a factor later on, I daresay."

John struggled to his feet and toppled forward miserably on his face, finding himself unable to brace against the fall. His hands were tied behind his back. Jim helped him up gently. "Now, now, I don't want you to hurt yourself. The brave soldier is ready to fight before he is even fully conscious. How unlike Sleeping Beauty over there." Jim gestured towards Sherlock. His arms and legs bound as well, but given somewhat greater mobility… his ankles were bound to his upper thighs rather than across at the knees. From John's angle, it was difficult to tell that Sherlock was bound at all; he looked as if he were kneeling quietly, with his hands clasped behind his back. An obscene parody of one of his thinking poses, or of prayer. He was slumped forward, still unconscious, with three all-too-familiar glowing red dots on his body. John saw one on his own as well.

"Open your eyes, sweetheart. I know you're completely conscious. There is nothing helpful you're going to overhear me say, thinking you're still sleeeeeeping. I know you're nah-aht." He punctuated the sing-song sweetness with a sharp kick which knocked Sherlock to the floor.

Sherlock rose up on his knees and made a small attempt to test his range of motion. He looked down at his oddly bound legs and blanched, then looked over to John, assessed his condition, and seemed to relax minutely.

"Thought you would especially appreciate the setting, Sherlock, because this is where your Johnny offered to sacrifice himself for you. Told you to run, save yourself. And you didn't! How sweet. _Romantic_, even. So, I'm going to help you two to take it to the next level."

John's mind was racing as Moriarty's insinuations were becoming clearer. Sherlock looked stoic.

"Oh, it's not just being altruistic," he continued. "You see, I think Miss Adler had thrown you off your game a bit." He kneeled down next to Sherlock. "All this talk of..." Moriarty drew out the word, "sexxx. I think you need a little more experience. It really is to your benefit. And Johnny is ever so helpful. And more than a little interested, I should think." John shot him daggers. Sherlock continued to look disinterested. "He really is quite beautiful, too, in a Byronesque sort of way. Little skinny though." He gave Sherlock a bruising pinch just above his waist.

"Johnny, I want you to continue to be helpful, so you'll get something out of it too." He paused to gaze at them both. "I want you to fuck him."

John scrunched his eyes tight at the words. Moriarty didn't even have a weapon on him; if he could overpower him, there wouldn't be anything to use to his advantage. He knew Sherlock was formulating some sort of plan, but the man did not seem to be making eye contact with either of them. Yet again, John was completely unable to see what Sherlock could. If there was no way to escape, then it was all about doing whatever it took to survive this. He could do that. They'd pick up the pieces later. As best they could.

"I'll untie your hands. I've even got some lubricant here," he smiled. Then Jim's voice abruptly shifted to a far darker tone. "Can't stand the stuff myself."


	2. Choice

The words brought it all into sharper focus. He could do this. He could do this if it meant they could get through it with minimal damage to Sherlock's body. He tried not to dwell on what Jim would do to him. As a doctor, he could provide some kind of efficient preparation, at least he could avoid the... tearing… oh God, the images flooded his mind as he fought not to let Moriarty see a reaction. Clearly he failed.

"Or I suppose I could do it myself, since you seem less than enthusiastic. I think perhaps I might have a bit more fun than you, but I know you saw him first. Fair's fair."

John gave a sharp nod and tried to gesture to have him unbind his hands. Jim came towards him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and then made a signal to someone a short distance away from the pool. "Oh, no, Johnny. Not getting near you with a knife. Wouldn't want to let you get quite that close to me again. I remember our last big hug. Don't care to repeat it. "

One of his men, close to John's age and roughly the same build, stepped into the pool area. As he took out a knife and headed to cut the rope binding John's hands, Sherlock whispered "No."

"Pardon?" said Jim, his eyes still on John.

"No," stronger this time. "John, this is not your choice. It's mine. Don't."

"Ah, a lover's spat!"

"Sherlock, I could…"

"I said no!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Johnny, you've been rejected. Maybe I'm just more his type? A better match?" He turned toward Sherlock. "I won't reject you, sweetheart."

Sherlock merely closed his eyes and took a deep breath in response.

"I don't think you will be needed," he said to the man with the knife, "but can I borrow that for a minute?" He handed the knife to Jim, who made deep cuts in the fabric of Sherlock's trousers along the inseam, and then his pants, slicing at his skin in the process. "Ooops, sorry!"

John, seeing the opportunity to gain a weapon, threw himself at Jim, who had anticipated the lunge and merely stepped to the side, holding a hand up and belting out "Wait!" as John fell to the floor.

That was it.

Sherlock had bought him one moment when Jim was preoccupied, and he had blown the opportunity. He muttered under his breath "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry."

"A chair for the doctor! Let's make him more comfortable." A hard plastic chair was brought in and placed farther back from Sherlock. Jim's assistant dragged John to it, then retrieved the knife. John didn't think it was possible for Jim's smile to have gotten wider, but it had, as he crossed back to Sherlock.

"Be a good boy now, and get Daddy nice and wet. It's for your own good."


	3. XOXO - Jim

At first, John was relieved that all he could see was the back of Sherlock's head and Sherlock couldn't see him at all, but he quickly realized he was at an ideal vantage point to see every expression on Jim's face, and Jim used it to full advantage. It was quiet enough to hear the sound of a zipper, and Jim lowered his pants to mid thigh and looked right at John, who was glaring back in defiance. Jim ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and kissed the top of his head softly, almost tenderly, just before grabbing a fistful of hair with one hand and clenching at Sherlock's jaw with the other, screaming "Open!" and shoving his prick deep into his throat with as much force as he could muster. Jim's exaggerated moan overrode Sherlock's muffled gagging and stifled retch.

"But I'm not even that hard yet, darling," he said. "I do hope you can take more."

John looked desperately around the room for anything that could possibly help, assuming he could even get to it if he found it. Anything Sherlock was willing him to do that he was far too slow to notice. He found nothing.

He tried to ignore the wet, slick sound of Jim thrusting into Sherlock's mouth, but it proved impossible. "Sorry you're missing out, Johnny. He really is quite good. Natural talent. Would have hated to see it wasted." Jim shuddered. "That's quite enough. Wouldn't want this over too soon." He shoved Sherlock to the side, giving John a better view of both his fully erect prick and Sherlock's tattered clothing. "I don't think I want to get too messy," he said, slipping on a condom. He grabbed some of the ripped fabric from the pants and reached around Sherlock's mouth to use it as a gag. John closed his eyes.

"Oh, no, no, that won't do. If you're not going to have video, then I think you really do need improved audio." Jim removed the gag, tossing the fabric at John's feet as he heard a jagged scream.

John was shaking, unsure if he should be watching for a hidden opportunity, or preserving whatever bit of Sherlock's dignity he could by not viewing the assault. Both choices seemed equally wrong. He could still hear the sound of muffled, wet breathing, punctuated by an occasional hoarse shout, and he imagined Sherlock fighting to hold back any signs of emotion and pain. His mind still pictured blood, Jim's gleeful expression, the repeated thrusting into Sherlock's body, and he wondered if not watching was truly helping either of them at all.

"Keep them closed, Doctor," Jim taunted, his breathing rate increasing. "Don't share in his pain. Don't offer any solidarity. It's his alone to bear…ah!" John wrenched his eyes open, his vision blurry, "Oh, here we are…mmmnnngh… almost done, and I've been neglecting you all this time." Jim reached around to grab Sherlock's prick. There was an indistinguishable sound muttered in protest. "Oh yes…that's sooooo much better. I'll help you catch up."

Jim's movement slowed as he concentrated on Sherlock, working at him until he came with a quiet, anguished groan, which was nearly drowned out by Jim's shout of triumph. He pulled out, removed the condom with a look of distaste, dressed, and left without a word. John heard the sound of a knife hitting the tile floor, and the sniper marks disappeared. The pool area was suddenly dark.

Using the moonlight shining through high windows, John threw himself to the floor and made his way toward the shining edge of the knife, collapsing on top of it. He managed to get it angled correctly with his still-bound hands, unravel the rope, and free himself. Legs still partially bound, he stumbled over to Sherlock and immediately grabbed the discarded pants to stem his bleeding. Sherlock said nothing. Neither did John.

Removing the ropes from them both, he helped Sherlock to his feet, and the two of them walked unsteadily to the back door. There, John caught a glimpse of his jacket and Sherlock's long coat, neatly folded, their cell phones placed on top. Sherlock's displayed a text. "Thanks for the lovely evening. I'll call you! XOXO -Jim" John threw it to the floor and used his own to call for an ambulance, while Sherlock leaned against the wall.


	4. Prognosis

Suggesting a short walk home after dinner rather than taking a cab had been John's idea, but blaming himself for that part of the sequence of events seemed somewhat unreasonable. The thought of the cool night air instead of the overheated restaurant had appealed to them both, but what happened between the turn down the darkening street and waking up by the side of that very same pool was a frustrating blur.

A nurse brought a rape kit. She was skilled and efficient, not finding much in the way of evidence, but still carefully combing for hairs, checking for any bite marks or abrasions, tending to the knife cuts along Sherlock's inner thighs, and thankfully not saying much. Pain relief options were limited, due to the asterisk and NA carefully notated in his file. John assumed that Mycroft could have had the narcotics restrictions expunged if needed, but he didn't dare speak a word of it to him. That would have to be Sherlock's decision… who he wanted to inform and when.

John had left Sherlock during the examination, ever aware of the need for privacy, and returned after the procedure was completed. Sherlock was lying on an examination table on his stomach. John sat down just to his left, adjusting the chair so he was well-within Sherlock's limited field of vision, and spoke.

"They didn't find much in terms of evidence. As your regular physician, I was able to access your reports. They have not examined the hair samples in detail, and the sperm samples were…"

"Were mine." Sherlock stated simply. John hesitated, attempting to rethink his approach in light of the unexpected declaration, but Sherlock continued to speak, "Yes, I know. A perfectly normal physiological reaction due to the increased blood flow and response to fear and direct stimulation. I am all too well-aware that it does not mean I enjoyed any of it."

"I was going to say the sperm samples were not present in the oral swab and were not detectable anywhere else, as he used a condom. Sherlock, the people here are competent." Then a bit softer, "So am I. No one would suggest anything quite so… absurd. They will offer you a psychological referral, and…"

"Declined."

"Declined," John repeated, resigned to the fact. "They'll want to give you the full drug cocktail as a precautionary measure. Routine prophylaxis would include ceftriaxone, azithomycon, metronidazole… and a two-week follow-up on bloodwork."

"Prognosis?"

"Undetermined until the next stage of the evaluation. You'll get a proctoscopic examination under general or local to assess the damage. The concern is perforation which is susceptible to infection or intramural rectal hematoma. The bleeding was extensive."

Sherlock tried to navigate to his side, having found it somewhat uncomfortable on his stomach and painful on his back.

"You're wondering why I didn't let you."


	5. Obvious

"It would have been...difficult... either way, but you are facing stitches now, possibly corrective surgery, and the potential for abdominal and urogenital complications in the future. I… I could have prevented that level of injury."

"I'm sure you would have. Moriarty likes to _plan_ these scenarios; I was not entirely convinced he would have _followed through_ with it with himself as a participant. He intended for you to do it for him. He does not fit the standard profile for a rapist, although... apparently, I am an exception," Sherlock gave a small, wry smile, which John did not return. "John, I was to be a victim, regardless. I did not wish to make you a perpetrator."

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I tried to get the knife. I … you were… my God, I watched him rape you. No. No, I didn't even have the ba... _courage_ to do that. I heard… I… all this, and you are telling me you let him do this to you to save me from some self-imposed label…"

"John, you tried to procure a knife whilst bound hand and foot. To imply that you lacked courage in any way is patently absurd. This is no different than any other assault to my person. Would you have punched me in his stead? Yes, I will require stitches. It will take some time to heal. The rest, the sexual component, is irrelevant. It was not a sexual act. This was an act of violence, pure and simple. The rest was a pathetic attempt to disturb you psychologically. Anything he said held no special significance for me. Anything he did to my body, I will heal from."

Sherlock shifted to make better eye contact with John. "I... don't think you are even capable of blaming me for being assaulted, sexually or otherwise, by a madman, and when you look at me, you see far more than a victim of a crime."

"Of course…"

"I chose to face additional short-term physical trauma, in the form of added pain, in place of the longer-term emotional trauma from which you might never fully recover. An obvious choice, really."

John sat in stunned silence. Here was his best friend (with whom he had been growing closer every moment, it seemed) telling him he had put himself through torture, willingly exposed himself to more pain, just to spare him as much emotional trauma as possible. Sherlock had done this to save him. He pushed his guilt down some more, surely there'd be time for that later.

There had been no secret plan. No golden opportunity for escape. Here was the simple proof of Sherlock's emotions. Of the depth of their friendship. This choice had been the better one for _them_. At the same time, John felt a new pang of despair, to have also received such complete and utter proof of how little Sherlock's own body meant to him. The deeper physical relationship he had been nurturing in the far corner of his mind, taking it out to look at it on rare occasions, like a precious toy a child was afraid to remove from the box for fear it would break, was simply not possible.

"Transport," John muttered, without even realizing the words had come out of his mouth.

"Yes, transport," Sherlock repeated. John looked at Sherlock, shocked. It was not the first time he had thought Sherlock had been reading his mind. "John, it is far better to preserve the mind and the heart than the body. Of the three, it is the easiest to heal."

John felt as if his brain was running particularly slowly. "I don't understand how deliberately exposing your body to more pain helped to preserve your heart."

"I was…" Sherlock frowned. "Well, it may no longer be a factor. If indeed it ever was. I was not willing to risk what Moriarty ultimately wanted to achieve. The destruction of our relationship. To have you unable to look at me without seeing me as a victim, as your victim, and seeing yourself in the worst light possible. In preserving your heart, I preserve mine."

John slowly nodded. It was a steep price to pay to preserve their friendship. "And… the 'may no longer be a factor' part?"

As painful as it was to move about, for the first time Sherlock turned away from John. "Perhaps you would find a damaged body less appealing, if you ever did find it so in the first place. But our minds are both still intact. We are both here- both alive. It was not the only choice which could have achieved that outcome, but it was a good choice."

"Sherlock, are you saying that you think I would… that you were…" John stopped and collected his thoughts. "Look at me."

Sherlock slowly turned back, clenching his teeth against the discomfort of the sudden shift in position. "Are you trying to imply that you were interested in pursuing a relationship with me beyond the friendship we already have, a romantic relationship, and… are you further trying to imply that I would somehow reject you because of what we've just lived through together? What the hell are you on, Sherlock?"

"Given Mycroft's insistence of notating my chart during my recovery process, I suspect Tramadol."

"Yeah. Well. Yes, I'm interested in a relationship with you. I wish I could provide an articulate enough argument that would wipe the rest of that rubbish out of your head, but it's taking all I've got not to be pissed off by the implication. In light of the circumstances, I will let it go, in favor of proving you wrong later. Now promise me you won't take any cases until you are off of that stuff, you idiot," he said, as he kissed Sherlock lightly on the forehead.

Sherlock smiled. "Promise."


End file.
